


Magari

by caffeineivore, elianthos



Series: Magari [1]
Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chance Meetings, Destiny, F/M, Falling In Love, Fanart, Fanart and fanfic, Friendship/Love, Italy, Random Encounters, Soul-Searching, charlie is chaotic evil, nerdsluts, serendipitous european adventures, weekend escapes, zoisite is incredibly pretty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineivore/pseuds/caffeineivore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianthos/pseuds/elianthos
Summary: Up-and-coming model Zack Anderson has never traveled out of the country before being selected for a fashion photoshoot in Milan. It's a great chance to play tourist and roam the beautiful Italian countryside, but he hadn't expected to get lost.Nor, of course, did he expect to find himself.  A/Z with mentions of other senshi/shitennou 'ships. AU. Written for the senshi/shitennou reverse minibang.





	Magari

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the senshi/shitennou reverse minibang. The beautiful artwork featured within this fic is the handiwork of Elianthos. Many thanks to Satine86 for the beta.

The sky overhead in Milan is a hard tile blue shining down on a cityscape springing up from the surrounding farmland which combined slick modern skyscrapers with elegant stonework cathedrals and gorgeous palaces. Even after the experience of living the last year of his life in hustling, bustling New York City, Zack Anderson can’t quite hide his fascination as the train makes its way towards downtown from Malpensa Airport. He gives the shoulder of his friend and traveling companion a gentle shake as the skyscrapers start coming into view.

Morgan Austen, even in airplane-chic yoga shorts and a red scrunchie holding back her mane of Viking shieldmaiden blonde hair, manages to be graceful as a fairy princess as she indulges in a jaw-popping yawn. “That’s not even the pretty part of Milan.” Still, with the air of an indulgent parent despite the fact that they are the same age, she reaches into her oversized handbag and pulls out a sketchbook by rote. “You won’t have time to get anything down for reals right now, but you do know that we have a full weekend before we’re at the mercy of the fine people of Gucci, let alone Raven. You’ll have plenty of time to explore to your little heart’s content, and not just Milan, for that matter.”

“Bear with me, Morgan,” Zack has his face pressed to the window, left hand deftly sketching the outlines of the skyline even as the train rolls on past. “You are aware that where I grew up, it’s almost an hour drive to the nearest Olive Garden. Which isn’t really even Italian, let alone anything of this calibre.”

“An hour drive? That could mean anything,” Morgan lets out an airy laugh. “Only you midwesterners tell driving distance by time rather than miles. Depending on LA traffic, an hour drive can be four miles or forty.”

“Okay, but you get the gist. Home is the land of cornfields and trucks and ride-or-die Buckeye fans. I have never seen something like this before, unlike sophisticated California girls from Beverly Hills. Could you at least attempt to be a little less jaded? For my ego’s sake?”

“Your ego will be fine. You won the campaign lottery with Gucci, you know. Between that and Fashion Week, you’ll be set. Goodness knows, you couldn’t _possibly_ be any prettier. And I mean that in the best, nicest, most loving and not-jealous-at-all way possible. Even if I could hate you for your eyelashes alone.” Morgan softens the last part of her statement with a pat to his cheek and a smile which could have graced a Pre-Raphaelite painting. “Think of this as a working holiday. Your own Italian adventure! Barring what will undoubtedly be a godawful work schedule set by Oh Fearless Leader herself, you’re sure to have a great deal of fun. I’m pretty sure this is the culmination of all your dreams come true.”

“Well, something of them, for sure.” Zack gazes out the window as his sketching hand slows. It’s certainly an adventure, and even the brief glimpse he has been afforded since the plane touched down at the airport shows a world incredibly, vibrantly different from that which he’d left behind without a backward glance. Whatever dreams he might have certainly were a world away from Blanchester, Ohio, population, 4243. But at the tender age of twenty-one, it could hardly be expected of him to know, exactly, what these dreams entailed. Unlike Morgan, who’d grown up more or less Los Angeles royalty. The darling daughter of famous television actress Melody Austen, her first ad campaign (for Hollister apparel) had been shot when she was all of thirteen years old. Zack still lacked the sort of certainty and dedication of those who’d always known that they’d enter the high-stakes, smoke-and-mirrors world of the fashion industry. It’s a step away, certainly, from the doldrums.

But a step away isn’t quite a step towards… something. Anything or everything or nothing.

**

The lady at the ticket counter at the train station spoke decent, if accented, English, and had greeted him with a friendly _‘Buon giorno’_ before helpfully explaining a few of the attractions that he’d be able see at his destination. Morgan had opted against coming along, citing jet lag and the fact that she’d been at Fashion Week three times already and had seen most of Italy, and it is with a cheerful, excited sort of optimism that Zack embarks on the train at the platform which had been pointed out to him.

Perhaps the optimism is a bit misplaced, however, and perhaps Morgan had the right of it. Zack finds himself nodding off, lulled by the train’s motion, and wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later to the train pulling into a semi-abandoned-looking station certainly nowhere close to any scenic areas. Disoriented and a bit apprehensive, he asks the lone elderly lady in a nearby seat where they are at, but she simply shakes her head, clearly not comprehending his English.

He lets it go for two more stops, but the view out the window is simply more and more empty and nondescript. Cursing under his breath, he pulls up Morgan’s number and dials, but the cell phone signal is too weak for the call to connect.

Deciding to suck it up, he disembarks at the next stop, and walks out of the station and down a pretty, sunny street until he finds a cluster of small shops with the intention of asking for directions. He has no luck in the first two, when his initial question of “Does anyone speak English in here?” gets nothing but blank stares in response, and the third one has the door locked and a sign up which probably signaled that the proprietor would be back soon, but Zack couldn’t read the specifics to be able to tell just when the doors would be opened again.

The sun overhead is now extremely hot, and Zack mutters darkly to himself as he digs out sunscreen and slathers it on his face and arms. The last thing he needs is to fall victim to sunburn before the big photoshoot. Gucci would punt him out by the ear, and Raven would probably make him hitch-hike home in disgrace. He walks a bit dejectedly down the street and comes across a little hole-in-the-wall cafe, clearly the sort which catered to the locals and not to the tourists, and walks in. There are a cluster of elderly men avidly watching a football game on an ancient television in the corner and all of two younger customers, each minding their own business at their own tables, and no one looks up at his arrival. Zack sighs, and tries, anyway.

“Excuse me, but does anyone here speak English?”

Much to surprise, a girl, seated at the far table, sets down the book she’d been reading, and meets his eye. “I do. How may I help you?”

Her accent is flawless London English, and her sapphire blue eyes meet Zack’s squarely, steadfast and deep as a tranquil sea on a quietly pretty heart-shaped face framed by smooth, glossy dark hair. Zack smiles in almost-giddy relief. “Oh Mylanta, I think you just saved my life. I am incredibly lost, and have no idea where I am or how to get to where I’m supposed to go, or how even to get back to where I was at. So if you could help me with any of those things… oh for Godsakes, I should probably introduce myself, yeah? Zack Anderson. And what’s your name?”

The girl looks for a moment as though debating between whether to smile, or simply look at him as though he’d lost his mind, but perhaps politeness, or curiosity, or a combination of both wins in the end. “My name is Amelia Mazzola, but please call me Amy. I suppose I could help you, or at least point you in the right direction. Where are you supposed to be going?”

“Domodossola and Lake Maggiore, and I thought I was taking the right train because the lady at the Milan station did speak English, but I also dozed off. Where am I, exactly?”

“Ohh. You likely got on the wrong train-- you’re at Vogogna Ossola, so it’s an easy mistake to make if the station clerk didn’t understand you correctly.”

Zack scrubs both hands over his face and peeks out at her from between his fingers. “And here I was trying to, y’know, run away from everyone before they put me to work next Monday. Probably too ambitious of a thing to attempt for an American boy from the boonies, hmm? I have no idea how to get anywhere, including back to Milan, and I have to be back to Milan by nine o’clock sharp Monday morning.”

Amy cocks her head to the side as though trying to come to a decision, then takes a deep breath before speaking. “Well, perhaps I can help. You see, I, too, have to be back to Milan by Monday. My flight back to London leaves at quarter of two. I suppose I wouldn’t mind some company in the meantime.”

Zack almost hugs her out of sheer gratitude, but one doesn’t do such a thing to a girl one just met all of ten minutes ago, so settles for shaking her hand with a bit more warmth and enthusiasm than one would expect amongst strangers. “Oh God, I think you’re my new best friend.”

**

Dinner that night is a savory, rich risotto and braised veal ossobuco, both a far cry from what may have passed as ‘Italian’ food back home, but warm and comforting in the best way. Zack insists on paying, citing the fact that she was doing him a favour by agreeing to be his impromptu tour guide. The _trattoria_ where they take their meal is dimly lit and quaint and casual, perhaps the Italian equivalent of a diner, and when he shares that speculation, it coaxes a laugh out of her.

“I suppose I can see why you’d see it that way. I can’t say that I have ever been to an American diner, but from what I’ve seen on the telly, I daresay you’re not far off.”

“Mind, this is not fries and a coney, but it’s not snobby food either, and I’m glad,” Zack says as he scoops up rice. “I’m so glad I have a good metabolism. It would suck to follow the dietary guidelines strongly encouraged upon us poor skinny fools trying to stay runway-fit. Grilled chicken breast and kale and baked salmon every day is for the birds.”

“As delicious as the food here is, I daresay cheating on a diet would be worth it. And, you know, real Italian food is quite healthy. You don’t see too many obese people here, and they have a good balance of nutrition in their meals-- a healthy ratio of proteins and complex carbohydrates and fats and so on.” Amy takes a sip of her water, which is served without ice. “The Mediterranean diet is touted as one of the healthiest for the heart, and a great deal of that modern-day system is based on the local fare of countries such as Italy and Spain and Greece.”

“Spoken like a true pre-med student,” Zack grins at her and lifts his own glass in a toast. “So, what’s the verdict on dessert? Should we, or shouldn’t we? I vote yes, of course. But I’m also a dumb American from the sticks and not a smart and pretty pre-med student from London.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Amy tells him reprovingly, but a hint of a smile belies her words. “I’m quite sure you’re not dumb, whether or not you have any interest in a future career in the medical field. Modeling doesn’t seem like it’s easy work, either.”

“It isn’t, and I’m not really doing it for life,” Zack confides, though it is a sentiment that he hasn’t voiced aloud to anyone before. Somehow, Amy, with her quiet blue eyes and her gentle smile, is easier to talk to even than Morgan and her five-people’s-worth-of-charm-rolled-into-one-person. “It was just the easiest way out of where I was from, you know? Well. That or join the army. And I’m not about guns and grenades and killing people and stuff. So when I got that chance, I ran with it.” His eyes, vivid green and long-lashed and melancholy, meet hers across the table. “My dad owns a small mechanic shop and my mom does the books for it. Pretty sure they both feel some type of way that I didn’t go into the family business, as it were, but among other things, last time I attempted to use a power drill-- and for the record regular hand tools are not designed for left-handed people, let alone power tools-- I almost took off a finger, so I have avoided that whole nonsense like the plague ever since.”

He doesn’t say anything about how there’d been no money for college, or how, perhaps even had there been, he might not have gone. It seemed pointless to pursue any path which might have been pursued by certain of his classmates, most of whom considered him a useless milksop or worse. It’s a depressing topic to even think about, so when the waiter returns, Zack orders dessert, and they’re brought generous squares of tiramisu and cups of strong black coffee.

“Fair enough.” Tactfully, Amy doesn’t question it, or seem to judge him for it. “What do you like to do then, if not repair cars?”

“I like to draw,” Zack answers, and picks up a clean napkin and a pen out of his pocket. Carefully but deftly, he first sketches the outlines, then fills in features. The paper of the napkin isn’t really suitable for drawing on, but he takes care not to rip it, and slowly the face of the girl seated across from him at the table takes shape-- smooth, dark hair, soft and pretty features. She has a face for watercolour-- delicate, wistful, pretty in a way that perhaps doesn’t strike one like a fist between the eyes, but stays in the memory long after that first glance. “I know it’s not super practical, and I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of being a starving artist living in a garret somewhere, but it’s the one thing I’m good at, and I’m afraid I just don’t know what to do with it.”

He slides the carelessly-delineated but pretty sketch of her face across the table to her, and is startled to see her blue eyes go from gentle to wary, almost sad. “You’re quite good,” she says, at long last, in a quiet voice. “My father’s an artist, too. He actually lives here, you see. I’ve always visited him in the summers, ever since I was twelve.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the unspoken part of her message-- that her parents weren’t together any more, and that it had been her father who had moved away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” He picks up the napkin sketch of her face, but while the best thing to do probably would have been to rip it up, he somehow can’t bring himself to do so, and so he tucks it into his pocket instead. It will likely end up ruined anyway, but at least not by his hand.

“It’s quite alright. He’s nice enough to stay with, during the hols. Just didn’t care much for London and all its rain and fog. A bit too gloomy for painting and the light needed, I suppose.” Amy squares her shoulders as though visibly shrugging off the unpleasant thoughts. “It’s quite a bit sunnier in Italy, and after all, he grew up here. One can’t blame him for being homesick.”

A subject change seems well in order, and so he finishes his quite-delicious tiramisu with perhaps ungraceful haste, and chugs the coffee to wash it down. Despite the lack of cream and sugar, it goes down smooth as silk. “So tell me a little bit about this town that we’re in. Is there some place we can stay for the night, or is there some tent pitching and the like? Because it’s fine if there is-- I come from hillbilly country, so I can handle that part.”

The statement coaxes a faint smile out of her, as he’d intended, and she shakes her head. “This is not a tourist-heavy spot, but there are a few bed-and-breakfast type places in the area. Perhaps a bit rustic and almost certainly without WiFi, but if you don’t mind, I don’t, either.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! As long as I don’t need to get a hold of people, which I don’t, not really, no WiFi is a plus. It’s better if my agent has no idea where I am and can’t get a hold of me. I love her and she’s wonderful, but she’s a tyrant in Louboutins and black skirt-suits and I’m pretty sure she was probably Xena, Warrior Princess in a past life. Her name is Raven Huntley and when even your name sounds like a character out of a noir graphic novel, you’re probably completely deadly, and I should probably make the sign of the cross and pray a little so she doesn’t know I was just talking about her.”

“You are very cheeky, and I’m sure she does not appreciate that,” Amy tells him, though she can’t quite hide a smile even as she scolds him.

They don’t have too far to go before Amy locates a local house open to taking in overnight guests, and quickly negotiates with the proprietress in Italian that sounds as delightful as her English accent about such things as prices and amenities. The home is small but quaint, with fussy muslin curtains on the windows and old-fashioned furniture, and their hostess shows them a bedroom and a comfy-looking couch covered with colourful chintz and piled with fat cushions.

“Oh, you’ll be taking the room, of course,” Zack says firmly to Amy, and then shakes his curly head when she looks about to protest it. “I have jet lag, remember. If I take the room, I may sleep the day away. If I’m out in the semi-open, I’ll wake up when everyone else does, so you know that just works out better for everyone.”

Their hostess gives them a brief tour, exchanging words only with Amy, clearly having ascertained that only one of them spoke the local language, and then goes off to gather bedsheets and pillows for Zack, who thanks her in English anyway. Perhaps she understands the spirit behind his words, because she smiles in a rather indulgent way before taking her leave, silently.

The couch is just a little too short for him to stretch out his six-foot-one frame completely, but is soft and comfortable in the best way, and the pillowcase underneath his cheek smells like fresh laundry dried out in the sunlight. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but wakes up the next morning feeling refreshed despite the slight crick in his neck and the fact that one quick glance in a mirror shows that his hair is at its rumply, unruly worst.

Breakfast that morning is homey and simple, coffee and croissants with chocolate, fresh eggs and hearty slices of local cheese and salami. Unlike himself, who likely resembles a human wearing a lion’s mane, Amy is fresh and pretty as a daisy as she pours herself coffee and converses with their hostess in her sweet-voiced Italian. Whatever it is that she’d asked has their hostess walking out of the kitchen, only to return with a few brochures of local attractions, which she hands to Amy.

They pay-- it’s no more than thirty euros to house and feed the both of them for the evening, and Zack presses another five euros into the palm of their hostess, only to receive a bewildered look.

“Tipping is not part of European culture the way it is for you lot across the pond,” Amy explains in an indulgent way, but says something in explanation to the hostess, who looks about ready to hand the money back to him.

“Well, it’s a part of my culture, and especially since she didn’t have to be nice to us and all that, or make all this delicious food, so just tell her I said thank you and please humour the ignorant American.”

Amy says something or another, and their hostess sighs as though somewhat embarrassed, but pockets the money. She snags Zack as he stuffs the last of his belongings into a backpack, though, and pushes a loaf of brown bread still warm from the oven and a small jar of what looked to be homemade blueberry preserves into his hands. Now it’s his turn to look bewildered.

_“Grazie, Signora,”_ Amy comes to his rescue once again, and in a few moments, they’re once again off and on their way.

**

Vogogna is rather off the beaten tourist path, but it does boast an ancient castle built centuries ago out of grey stone, some parts so time-worn that tufts of green moss peek out between the cracks and crevices. It’s everything out of any medieval movie or show that he’d ever seen on television, except far more genuine, down to the rust on the blades of the weapons on display. Zack is fairly sure that he does more than his fair share of gawking and photographing, but then again, it certainly isn’t every day that one came across a bona fide castle, either.

“I feel as though I should be fighting a dragon or something to win your hand, fair princess,” he says to Amy with a teasing wink, and she laughs even as she shakes her head.

“Oh, I don’t know. A lot of Italian fairy tales have the princess fighting off her own demons or dragons or other adversaries. There are certainly more than a fair share of wicked stepmothers and envious siblings, too.”

“Well, in that case, I am okay with being in your debt, as you have rescued me from being hopelessly lost in the Italian countryside. Do I have to bring you a golden apple or a rose or a talking bird or something to express my thanks?”

“I rather prefer green apples myself, and I daresay I don’t have the time needed to train and upkeep a parrot, and as for roses, I have never received them before, but they’re easy enough to obtain without any help. There are loads of florist shops in London.”

The first part of her drolly-voiced statement has him chuckling, and the latter has him looking at her in consternation. “But you’re so kind, and smart, and beautiful, and every girl should be given roses at some point. In America, between proms and birthdays and Valentine’s Days and anniversaries and graduations and-- good Lord, anything, really-- you should’ve gotten at least a few dozen of them by now.”

“Well, I suppose us Brits are a less sentimental lot, and moreover, it’s still two years before I graduate. And taking and passing GCSE’s and A-Levels are a bit less romanticized than how you do it across the pond. I’m almost certain there isn’t even a single film devoted to that subject, unlike the plethora of them in the States.”

“Well, that does it.” It’s an impulse, but Zack steps up so that he’s standing right in front of her, and takes both her hands in his. “Miss Amelia Mazzola, Amy to your friends, I will bring you roses when you graduate in two years. Pink ones. A huge and embarrassing number of them. The type of bouquet that costs a man half his paycheck on Valentine’s Day. Mark my words. I will be there, and you’ll have to explain to your friends about the foolish American boy who you saved from certain death in Italy two years ago.”

“Oh, pish-posh. You shan’t do any such thing, nor would I expect that of you.”

“Oh, but I so will. Pinky swear.” When she gives him a skeptical look, he simply links his pinky around hers and gives it a shake. “This is totally happening. You, me, and an exorbitant amount of graduation roses in two years. I probably won’t get quite as lost in London trying to find you because at least I can read and speak the language, right? But even if that wasn’t the case, I’d have to make it happen.”

“You are impossible,” Amy shakes her head at him, but all he does is smile wider.

“Two years, Amy.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

**

They visit Lago di Mergozzo and rent a paddle-boat at the marina, and Zack dutifully slathers himself with sunscreen everywhere his skin is exposed and puts on a pair of sunglasses which had come from a drug store and not a designer. If Amy is at all amused at his careful preparations, she doesn’t say so. The water is clear and pristine, and in its calm surface, they can see the reflection of the sky and the mountains in the distance. The beach is more grass and rock than sand, but it’s a pretty spot, and they go at a leisurely pace, Zack balancing a sketchpad on his lap and drawing a few of the prettiest sights-- the picturesque cobblestone streets of the nearby town, the trees and mountains surrounding the water, the upturned profile of his companion as she gazed towards the far shore. They make a picnic lunch of the delicious bread and jam given to them by the lady at the B&B, then stop in at a local Birreria that Amy knows about for a panini and a beer. Zack lets Amy order, and ends up inhaling his panini-- all herbed, olive-oil-brushed focaccia and savoury ham and sharp cheese and fresh tomatoes-- in a few bites. He also takes the beer that’s placed in front of him-- something a dark auburn in colour and roasty-sweet in taste, a far cry from the cans of Budweiser usually found in his family’s garage.

“This lake is a bit less famous than Lake Maggiore, but it’s quieter and not as crowded, so I thought that you’d like to visit it,” Amy tells him, and it’s incredibly kind of her to bring him to a spot analogous to his original intended destination.

They take shelter under the shade of a few trees when the noonday sun gets a bit too intense overhead, and talk about anything and everything. Amy tells him about campus life at London’s Imperial College and of her best friend and flatmate, Mary Kathleen O’Keefe, who hails from Ireland and is working on an engineering degree and is as outspoken and brash as Amy herself is calm and quiet. Zack tells her about being recruited by a talent scout at an outing to the mall, and the culture shock of moving from small-town midwestern USA to the big city with little more than a backpack and a prayer. He admits, perhaps as he never has before, that although there’d been very little about Blanchester, Ohio, population, 4243 to miss, he still felt the pangs of homesickness at times.

“You just can’t get a good cheesy casserole in New York. Or LA. Or wherever. And also, don’t even think about buying an actual decent and useful winter coat anywhere. We know how to not freeze when there are five-feet snowdrifts and polar vortex wind-chills back home, at least. It’s the smallest and stupidest things that I miss, you know?”

“I understand,” Amy smiles faintly. “I miss tea when I’m here, and coffee when I’m in London. Of course I can get both anywhere, but it’s somehow not the same.”

There is enough time, Amy deems, for them to reach Lago d’Orta by sunset, and so they get on-board another train, which winds its leisurely way across the lovely, sunny countryside. Amy, with what he has come to think of as her intrinsic understanding nature, lets him have the window seat, and he spends a leisurely hour or so taking pictures and sketching, before the combination of sunshine and beer and general contentment overtakes him in the form of a pleasant drowsiness, and perhaps Amy feels the same, because at some point, her head lands on his shoulder, hair like cool silk against his cheek. Her face is tilted towards him, and even when he leans closer, she doesn’t wake, and there is something so trusting about that moment that something flutters deep within him, and he wonders, whimsically, if this was how the ancient sailors felt upon spotting land on the horizon at long last after months of being lost and adrift at sea.

The seat isn’t particularly comfortable, even with the middle armrest between them moved up and out the way. Nonetheless, Zack wraps an arm around Amy, as though he has every right to, and when she simply sighs and shifts even closer, leans his head against hers and lets the sun and the rocking motion of the train lull him to sleep.

**

They arrive in Orta San Giulio in time to grab dinner at a place called Ristorante Venus, which looks as though it might have never left the nineteenth century, with old-fashioned architecture and art on the walls. They’re seated close to a window which overlooks Lake Orta itself, which is beautifully reflecting the colours of the setting sun and surrounded by lush greenery and lovely cobblestone streets and graceful churches. Amy inquires into the food selection, and they end up, at the waiter’s suggestion, each selecting a house-curated four-course tasting menu. Zack’s meal-- which Amy translates into the “Earth menu”, consists of multiple selections he has never tasted before, including rabbit and duck, but it is delicious, presented beautifully and expertly prepared. Amy’s, which she translates into the “Water menu”, tends more on the seafood end, but she seems to enjoy it as much as he does his. They each get a glass of the local wine, and it feels strangely intimate, almost like a date.

They linger over dessert, and talk some more about whatever strikes their fancy. Amy tells him about her mother, who had also gone to Imperial College in London and currently worked in the Labour Ward of Queen Charlotte’s and Chelsea Hospital. She talks about long hours spent home alone, as a little girl, and escaping into the world of books, and making herself sandwiches for dinner when Mum had overtime. Zack tells her about the ancient 1980’s era Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme that his dad kept under tarp in the garage-- boxy and undrivable, but chock-ful of sentimental value. He also talks about the one and only time that he’d gone deer-hunting (awful and traumatizing), and horseback riding at an uncle’s ranch (surprisingly fun). They’re from entirely disparate backgrounds, with different personalities and interests and pasts and probable futures, two secretly-lonely souls passing each other like ships in the night, but at that very moment, the setting sunlight bringing out the almost-blue sheen of her dark hair, somewhere he’s never been before and might never be, again, he’s never felt so close to anyone.

Perhaps she feels something of it, and maybe a part of her is as thrilled and scared as he is, because she breaks the silence as a new song comes on from the restaurant’s speakers, clearing her throat just a little too loud. “I love this version of ‘Que Sera, Sera’.”

“This is my second day here, and I still don’t understand a lick of Italian,” Zack quips. “You’ll have to translate.”

“Well, the song itself is fairly famous, of course. It’s about fate-- whatever will be, will be. Of course, seeing that it’s an Italian cover, you hear the word ‘Magari’ interspersed throughout. And that’s a word that doesn’t translate well into English. Or-- one can translate it, literally, but not its connotation.”

“Oh? What does it mean?”

“Maybe someday. If only.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t elaborate further, but at that moment, Zack isn’t quite sure he can cope with any further conversation, even hers, as that word, untranslatable and chimaeric, lingers in the air between them like mist. _Maybe someday, if only._ Something deep and warm and nerve-wracking and more than a little painful wells up in his chest, and he hopes that she doesn’t notice his next breath isn’t quite steady.

He is never so relieved as when the waiter arrives with their check, and gives the man a more-than-generous tip despite Amy’s advice earlier about how it wasn’t done much here, then finally manages some approximation of a smile. “Want to go for a walk? It’s so pretty outside, and still warm, and I’m not tired-- are you tired?”

“No, I’m not tired.” They pick up their things, and make their way out into the wisteria and rosemary-scented night air, and walk at a leisurely pace along the shores of the peaceful lake. He’s almost a full head taller than her, and shortens his stride so that they walk at the same pace. She tells him a little about the nuns on the island, the history of the chapels, and at some point, as the moon shines on them from above, her hand finds his, naturally. Her fingers are slim but strong, with sensibly short nails and soft skin.

They adjourn to their room at a local B&B a while later-- Amy had requested two beds, and he lets her have the bathroom first. The room boasts a tiny balcony, its railings all but covered with sweet, purplish-blue wisteria blooms, and he sits out there for a long time, half-heartedly sketching bits and pieces of the landscape-- ripples of water reflecting moonlight, the tangled thorns and blooms of a climbing rose against a crumbling wall, the majestic peaks of the mountains looming in the distance-- and finding himself interspersing those with glances and glimpses of her-- the curve of her hair against her cheekbone, the softness of her mouth, the endless blue of her eyes. He’d known her for a little more than a day-- had a little more than a day left, in her company, and, a part of him knows that even after he crosses back over that ocean and leaves this strange, sun-washed and lovely world behind, he’d never forget her or anything they’d shared in this single weekend. He’d made a foolish pact to come to her graduation-- she, who’d always known what she’d wanted to do with her life-- and he knows that when he does-- when, and not if-- he’d be able to pick her out of a sea of strangers in marine-blue graduation gowns. Perhaps by then he’d have a direction, as she does-- a rudder and a bearing. He hoped so, so that he could tell her, see her smile in approval. And moreover, running away was meaningless unless one knew, ultimately, what to run towards, instead.

Eventually, of course, he does come back in, take a quick shower and turn in for the night, careful not to wake the sleeping girl at the other side of the room. She’s peaceful, lying on her side, dark eyelashes shadowing her pale cheeks, facing the direction of his bed with one arm loosely stretched out towards it. Almost but not quite subconsciously, he lies down and turns so that he faces her, a mirrored pose, their hands reaching towards each other across the space of the room as sleep overtakes him.

**

Zack awakens the next morning to the insistent sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand, and it’s clear that whatever was wrong with the cell signal and WiFi in Vogogna is not an issue here, in Orta, because there are half a dozen missed calls from both Morgan and Raven, as well as text messages, increasingly worried in tone, asking for his whereabouts.

Amy’s clearly already awake-- her bed is already made, and there’s the sound of the shower running from the ensuite bathroom. He eyes the bathroom door, then retreats to the balcony to return the calls.

Raven picks up on the first ring. “Where the hell are you?” Her accent is straight-up Manhattan, but despite the abruptness of her words, she doesn’t sound any angrier than usual.

“I’m exploring Orta San Giulio right now,” Zack answers. “I got a bit turned around on the trains, but it’s all right, I know where I’m at right now.”

“I was about to summon the _carabinieri_ to hunt you down and make sure you didn’t fall off a cliff somewhere,” Raven says crisply. “When Morgan told me that you’d gone off to explore, I almost had a goddamned heart attack, and let me tell you, I’m too young for that shit. Orta’s all right. A bit quiet, but that should suit you just fine, farm boy.”

Coming from her, despite her naturally sardonic tone, it’s almost an endearment rather than a derogatory term. “I got lost for a bit, but made a friend, and-- we went and visited a lot of beautiful places.”

“Well, glad you had some fun, but don’t you get into any trouble. Staying up on skincare and drinking enough water? It’s a bit hotter and sunnier here than what you’re used to back home, probably.”

“I haven’t managed to broil like a romantic lobster dinner for two, if that’s what you’re asking,” Zack says dryly. “I don’t want that any more than you.”

“Well, get back to the hotel by tonight, before the last train leaves the station and leaves you stranded and leaves the rest of us fucked.” Clearly, Raven had reached the limits of her sentimental concern for one of her charges, and was moving onto the next topic. “You know how to get back to Milan, or do I need to really send the damn cavalry?”

“I can find my way. Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you when I get back.” Zack hangs up, and realizes two things. The first is that he means what he said just now to Raven, and not merely about the trip back to Milan-- he would undoubtedly have to think things over, and certainly work harder than he’s ever done before, but there was a future for him, a voyage ahead where he could live and perhaps even thrive.

The second is that he’s no longer alone on the balcony. Amy is standing there, looking pensive and lovely and just slightly unreadable in the warm dawn light. He can’t be certain of how much she’s heard of his conversation, but she smiles and breaks the silence before it can get awkward. “Want to take a walk before breakfast? It’s still cool outside.”

**

The shore of the lake is slightly misty in the breezy morning air, and most of the tourists are not out yet. They make their leisurely way along the path, then take one of the piers almost to the end, close enough that Zack can dip his fingers into the water, and he does. It’s chilly and clean and clear.

“We should probably head back to Milan in the afternoon, before the last train leaves. I’m sorry if you didn’t get to see what you’d set out to visit,” Amy says quietly, looking out at the blue water rather than at his face. “But you have plenty of time, don’t you? I’m quite sure you can take a day or two with your colleagues to explore in between photoshoots.”

“I enjoyed spending time with you,” Zack says, perhaps a bit too plain-spokenly. Somehow, it is both easier and yet more nerve-wracking to talk to her than any other girl he’s ever met. “And I can’t even begin to thank you for taking this time out to keep me company and show me the way.”

“Oh, well, it was no trouble.” Amy gives him a wan smile that he has begun to associate with sorrow than the expected happiness. “My father’s out of town at the moment. Meeting with a buyer out in St. Moritz, which is a nice opportunity to do some painting out there. Sort of a working holiday. I was at odds and ends a bit, myself. I don’t mind staying at home and studying, but there’s generally more of that during the term than during the summer.”

“I see. Does he live out in Milan, then?”

“He has a flat in the city, but also a place out in the countryside. One can’t network in the middle of nowhere, but it’s a better area for scenery, lighting, and so on. I have keys to both, and will stay at his flat and pack my things before the flight back to London. And after that, I’ll probably first go to Mum’s before heading off to the flat I stay at by the Uni campus.”

“I currently share a tiny miserable shoebox-sized apartment right now with this other model, Noah, next to whom I look like a picket next to a tree trunk. He does print work for Levi and commercials for Jeep, and those shirtless pictures on the covers of paperback romance novels. We’re both too damned tall for the bathroom of the place, but what can you do, right? He goes to school at City College and is majoring in physics, and likes to call himself the Gimli to my Legolas. And then we also hang out a lot with Morgan, who’s actually also here for the photoshoot, but she’s been doing this way longer than both of us, and is a bit more serious about it.”

Amy raises an eyebrow. “Morgan? As in…?”

“Yeah, _that_ Morgan. Not that there are any others working in the industry at present, and if there were, they’d probably change their names just because they’re obviously not her. I’m really quite lucky to be able to know her, and be on the same gig, for that matter.”

“She’s gorgeous. Like what you’d always imagined a fairy tale princess to look like, in real life.”

“She’d say it’s all that hair, and then tell you that she sheds worse than her cat,” Zack says with a lopsided grin, and that brings another faint smile to Amy’s face.

“It seems like you have a few good friends, even if you’re far away from home. I’m glad. It’s important to have people whom you can count on.”

“I am, too.”

She _must_ know that by now, he’d consider her amongst that number, even in this brief, almost-enchanted spell of their acquaintance, but she doesn’t say anything. There are no words necessary, really. It’s nothing more than the perfect sunrise, wonderful and slightly melancholy, alone together with their thoughts and dreams and shared secrets and countless things unsaid, surrounded by cool air and green trees and blue water and the scent of all the sweet, nameless flowers in bloom.

**

They have breakfast at the hotel, and then leave Orta on foot, taking a hike up the Sacro Monte and taking the time to explore the ancient chapels with their beautiful frescoes. At one point, Zack reaches out a hand to Amy at a particularly steep spot on the path, but neither let go even during the trek down towards the path of the station. Amy takes him into a little corner shop, and buys them a few victuals for the road-- _salame al tartufo_ and a loaf of bread and two bottles of water.

They board a mostly-empty train, and head in the direction of Domodossola, and on-board, they talk some more, about all the little, random, important things. Zack learns that Amy’s favourite colour is blue, and that she took harp lessons as a little girl, and that while she could, quite stunningly, discuss and analyze Homer’s _Iliad_ and Dante’s _Inferno_, the book she’d stowed in her bag for pleasure-reading was some delightfully pastel-covered Nora Roberts romance novel. He confides, too, that he’d avoided almost all of the athletic events at his high school because he’d never gotten along with any of the jocks, that he has a slight fear of snakes, and the food that he missed the most from home was soft-serve ice cream, being sold out of some tiny tin can shop or truck, cash-only, usually with a line of hungry children and families milling about them like moths drawn to a porch light.

They share the simple fare of bread and meat--- hearty and surprisingly delicious, and disembark at Domodossola, where Zack gets more Euros out of the ATM and sends a few more text messages to Raven and Morgan apprising them of his whereabouts and reiterating his promise to be back in Milan by nightfall. They make it to Lake Maggiore after all, and take a quick walk down to the waterfront, by the Grand Hotel Des Iles Borromees. It’s lavish and luxuriant with blooming summer flora and stunning architectural touches including a huge fountain.

“So what’s your opinion about the whole custom of throwing coins into fountains?” Zack asks.

“It originated with the Trevi fountain in Rome, where the superstition was that if you threw a coin into the fountain, you’d return to Rome. And if you throw in two, you’d fall in love there with a Roman. Three coins meant that you’d marry them. But really, the custom started with the ancient ritual of offering thanks to your gods--- in this case, for providing you with fresh water. They clean the coins out of the Trevi fountain every day, and donate them to charity, so perhaps it’s not such a bad superstition after all.”

She turns away, walks back up the steps that lead to the fountain, and Zack glances at her, then at the clear, rushing water. He doesn’t have a great deal of change on him, but a quick check turns up an American quarter and two pennies. Laughing a little at his own sentimentality, he tosses all three coins into the water before hurrying up the steps after her.

**

They reach the Grand Hotel et de Milan sometime after nine, and though it is certainly still warm enough outside, a brisk breeze has picked up, ruffling Zack’s hair into unruly tangles. The building itself is brilliantly lit from within and gorgeously decked out in an opulent art nouveau style, with the best possible combination of old-world charm and modern-day sleekness. It’s clear that Gucci meant business, or Raven had pulled some strings, or perhaps some combination of both.

“There’s a suite named after the composer, Verdi, and it’s one of the most famous luxury hotel suites in this city,” Amy tells him quietly, still patiently teaching him bits and pieces of this country that for the last three days has been his and hers, together. “Judging from nothing more than the accommodations, you and your agency stand to make a good deal of money on this ad campaign.”

“Probably.” The money he stood to make means something entirely different now-- and a part of him wants to ramble, just talk on as fast as he possibly can, words tripping over each other in their haste, explain to her that he finally found something akin to a future and an aspiration and a goal. That in two years, when she graduated, undoubtedly with all the highest honours and accolades, he’d be able to tell her, in person, that he was well on his own way to the start of something worthwhile, something better. But there isn’t enough time, and so he simply musters up the brightest smile that he can, shakes her hand and holds onto it for a moment too long. “Thank you for these last few days. I’ll never forget it.”

“Neither will I. I hope--- I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here in Italy.” Amy looks down at their joined hands, then at the gleaming lights in the hotel lobby through the doors behind his back, and seems to come to some sort of decision. Quick as a flash, soft as a whisper, she reaches up with her free hand, which brushes his cheek before sinking into the whorls of his hair, and tugs his face down to the same level as hers. The kiss she presses to his mouth is slightly awkward, noses bumping, his head almost comically bent because of their height difference, and she breaks it after all of two seconds, but before she can even pull back far enough for him to register the shade of her blush, he lets go of her hand and pulls her in and kisses her back, longer and deeper, until it’s no longer awkward and her fingers find his nape and his anchor at the small of her back. They part for breath a few moments later, but he holds on for just a moment longer before taking a deep breath and stepping back.

“_Ciao_.” She doesn’t say ‘goodbye’, at least not in English, and if he’s not mistaken, that particular word in Italian could also mean ‘hello’. It’s almost enough to give him hope, even if everything in him aches, subtly but deeply, as she turns and walks down the steps, walking at a brisk clip towards the direction of the station. He watches her petite, graceful figure as it gets smaller and smaller, further and further down the street, until it turns a corner and disappears from sight, and sighs before squaring his shoulders and turning towards the hotel’s main doors.

He almost bumps into a beady-eyed Morgan, standing a few feet away from the inner doors, clearly waiting for his arrival. She cocks an eyebrow and tilts her glorious blonde head to one side. “And where have _you_ been?”

“Finding myself,” Zack, for once, doesn’t have it in him to banter with her, not when all he can see and hear and feel and think about is a soothing voice with the sweetest English accent and a pair of blue eyes, steadfast as the sea, that sometimes twinkled with mirth or darkened with sorrow but always looked at him and seemed to understand anything and everything he said and thought and felt. It’s too near and raw still, like a fresh bruise which hurt whenever it was accidentally touched, and he shakes his head, quite sure Morgan notices that he’s not meeting her eyes, but also quite sure that he’s not ready to talk about it, even with a good friend such as her. “I’ll see you in the morning. If you’ll excuse me.”

**

Zack passes a mostly-sleepless night, though the bed in his hotel room is quite possibly the most luxurious he’s ever rested in, and finally gives up on sleep altogether as the sun is coming up. He gets dressed for comfort-- worn jeans and an old t-shirt, and wanders listlessly down to the lobby, half-heartedly in search of coffee. At this hour, the hotel is silent, and though it is certainly the most beautiful accommodations he’s ever had the pleasure and opportunity to stay at, the echo of his solitary footsteps on the floor ring, loud and awfully lonely, on the marble. It’s a stark contrast to that first night in Vogogna, when he’d slept on a couch that was just a little too short, with Amy in the next room over, and then shared a cozy breakfast in a small kitchen and got gifted with homemade bread and jam over tipping their hostess.

“Oh, good, you’re up.” Raven, impeccably dressed and looking as though she’d perhaps been expecting him for the last several hours, rises out of one of the couches in the hotel lobby, shaking back her jet-black hair. Objectively speaking, she’s a beautiful woman, in that no-nonsense, ultra-competent way, with her sharp cheekbones and unsmiling, red-painted lips, but Zack finds himself, as ever, slightly shying away from her piercing gaze. “You’ll see her again, you know.”

Zack’s eyes widen, and Raven shakes her head, huffs out a laugh. “What? I’m not an idiot. I know everything there is to know about my people, always. I get paid to know, just in case someone massively fucks up and I have to save their asses from some career-ruining PR nightmare. In your case, it’s nothing so bad. You’ll see her again, like I said.”

“I don’t know where she lives, either here or in London. I don’t so much as have a phone number or email address or even a Facebook page.” Zack gives up trying to fathom exactly how Raven knows about Amy, chalking it up to her inherent, uncanny scariness, and laughs sadly at how pathetic and probably ridiculous he must sound. He is quite certain that he’d told more about himself to Amy than he’d ever shared with one person all at once, and she’d been equally open with him. He’d fallen asleep next to her, and kissed her, and shared meals and wine and secrets. And he had no way of finding her, outside of a silly promise to be at her college graduation.

Raven waves off all of this as though it didn’t matter in the slightest. “And? I met my husband as I was sprinting through LAX about to miss my damned connection back to JFK. Awful, awful places, both those airports. I literally crashed into him and then gave him a piece of my mind because he’d been on his damn headphones and I almost broke a heel. We grabbed each other’s briefcases by accident. At least he has good taste in bags, though that didn’t do me no favours when I went to organize my portfolio before turning it in and found a bunch of freaking lab reports-- Honors Biochem Lab, UCLA.” A rare smile crosses her lips, softening her features into something exquisite and almost approachable for a moment. “We didn’t even know each other’s names. Your girl’s not a bad sort.”

“How would you even--?”

“Tracked your card, then checked hotel registries. I’ve been up for hours. She’s got no criminal history and an impressive academic record.”

At that, Zack is forced to laugh, even as he backed up a step. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be working for the FBI, boss-lady?”

“Ugh. Don’t let those TV shows fool you. Horrible ill-fitting suits and ugly-ass shoes. Hard fucking pass. Anyway, if you’re meant to see each other again, the whole damn universe wouldn’t be able to stop you. And if you’re not sure if you’re meant or not, you work to get the universe in your favour. So on that note, get some coffee and carbs in you before makeup. It’s going to be a long-ass day and I don’t want anyone passing out.”

Zack obediently makes his way to one of the three hotel restaurants, and soon takes a seat with Morgan and starts in on coffee and a _cornetto_, slathering on an inhuman amount of chocolate hazelnut spread, and also picks up several different other pastries for which he has no name.

“I hate you and your metabolism. And your eyelashes. Have I ever mentioned those? Because I hate those, too.” Morgan, not a coffee drinker, is groggy in the mornings as she chugs orange juice and opts for buttered toast and fruit. Somehow, she manages to look like a drowsy fairy princess waking up from an enchanted slumber rather than a typical human gremlin before alertness sets in. “I’m pretty sure Raven hasn’t slept for the last three days.”

“After this morning’s talk with her, yeah, I am pretty sure she never sleeps. How is she alive?”

“Jury’s still out but there’s been speculation that she might be part-cyborg. But from what I hear, too, the Italians do magical things with coffee. I am, of course, more of the unicorn frappuccino from Starbucks trash myself. And smoothies. Smoothies are amazing. A green smoothie with kale and avocado and fruit and protein powder saved my life so many times when I overslept in high school and missed breakfast because I was running late.”

“You’re such a California girl,” Zack laughs at her affectionately. “It’s not a real American breakfast if it doesn’t involve a dead pig or at least sugary cereal.”

“We can agree to disagree, farm boy.” Morgan’s gaze turns serious, and though she’s still smiling, there’s concern in her big baby blues. “So… who’s the girl? She’s super pretty, by the way. What little I could see of her, at any rate. You had your back to the door and you’re kind of a head taller than she was.”

“Her name is Amy, and she’s from London, here for the summer to see her dad. I got lost and wandered into a cafe in the middle of nowhere in search of someone who spoke English, and there she was.”

It sounds almost unforgivably sappy when he says it that way, sort of like those stories an old man would tell his grandchildren about how he’d met their grandmother during a misty, long-forgotten youth. But rather than make fun of him, or even laugh, Morgan sobers and spears a ripe strawberry out of her fruit bowl with a little more than the necessary force. “I see. Well, I vote we work the hell out of this ad campaign, and then Fashion Week, and then whatever else comes our way. The best cure for a broken heart is a distraction, it’s a fact.”

“And who broke your heart, honey?” Zack has never seen Morgan date anyone, though certainly the celebrity tabloids have linked her name to one person after another ranging from a professional poker player in Vegas to a singer in some Britpop boy band. But the vehement way she spoke suggested something of personal experience.

“No one. We’re not talking about me, anyway. Anyway, you better finish up so we can slather you in a gallon of sunscreen before makeup.”

Morgan’s smile, perennial and pleasant though it certainly is, signals the end of that conversation, and Zack takes to heart at least one part of her statement. It would do him no good to think of Amy, of what could have been, of how much he misses her already, when they’d always known it was just for that one magical weekend. Work would keep him busy and distracted and hopefully exhaust him into dreamless sleep by the end of the day.

**

The photoshoot takes place on the grounds of the Villa Reale di Milano, which houses a modern art museum on its premises. Zack loses count of how many costume changes he goes through, how many poses and backgrounds they shoot in. The Villa boasts lush, pastoral gardens as well as elaborate ballrooms, and the designer and photographers certainly seem eager to take advantage of the entire range of locales.

They break for water and a quick bite to eat-- Zack is reluctantly amused to see Morgan guzzling what, indeed, looks to be a green smoothie as he takes some bread and cheese. The simple food reminds him of Amy, though, and he sighs, before almost jumping out of his skin when a photographer barks a directive in Italian at his own entourage which causes the room to break into near-chaos.

His food is confiscated, half-eaten, and before he quite knows what is going on, he’s once again in makeup, being ordered into yet another costume change. “Excuse me, but what is going on, exactly? I thought I had ten minutes?”

“The face! He’s losing it!” The photographer yells, then glares at Zack in the way of an impatient teacher dealing with a bratty child. “You were thinking of something-- no, _someone_. The one who makes you happy and sad all at once. All you models are the same-- young and with beautiful faces. No life in the eyes most of the time. When there’s finally a spark of something…”

The day is stressful enough, drowning under the weight of missing someone he barely knows, with a hot sun shining overhead, stifling under a stuffy couture suit worth thousands of dollars, that being berated by a photographer with no noticeable people skills of any kind is about the limits of what Zack can take. He glares and grits his teeth, ignores Morgan’s soothing touch on his arm. “Is the money really worth it?” he hisses in her ear, barely paying attention as the photographer’s camera goes off, shutter-click staccatos firing rapidly as bullets out of a machine gun. “Please tell me there’s a good million fucking dollars in this.”

“Anger is better than nothing, my friend. But the other…”

Morgan, darting glances between the frantic photographer and a mildly restive Raven, turns her attention completely on him, forcing him to focus on her rather than the discomfort. “Tell me about your Amy.”

And so he does. Staring into the pond in the garden. Striding through the grand ballroom with Morgan on his arm. Under vaulted ceilings and blue skies. By the time they call it a day, it’s full night outside, and Zack is about hungry enough to eat the grass under his feet. But the photographer is going through his shots, and has a grin the likes of which usually graced jack o’lanterns on Halloween.

“Beautiful, beautiful. You two could be the Lannisters, minus the evil plotting and the creepy incest. Young golden gods. Spoiled but soulful. Just somber enough to hint at a tragic secret underneath that gorgeous hair.” He leaves without a backward glance, mercurial as his moods, but Raven walks up to Zack with what’s left of his bread and cheese from earlier. It’s still cold, as though she must have put it away in a cooler somewhere as they’d been put through their paces, and he wolfs it down without an iota of concern that he might be getting crumbs on haute couture worth thousands of dollars.

“Here, sit down, take a load off and eat so we can wipe that crap off your face. You guys did good today. Let’s get wrapped up so we can go eat something for real. I’m going to order a bottle of Barolo, straight up. We’ve fucking earned it.”

**

~~TWO YEARS LATER~~

London is gloomy and rainy, and though the cab stand at Heathrow is doing a brisk business and moving all the arrivals out of the line at a quick pace, Zack certainly pulls his hood up on his coat and pulls the flaps closed tighter. Next to him, his friend Noah is none-too-gently yanking a hoodie over his head.

“This is why this country’s obsessed with tea. This weather, right here. What would you drink _but_ tea when it’s supposedly like this year-round?” Noah hails from Arizona, and Zack is fairly sure that any time it rains more than an hour, Noah’s afraid of either mouldering or melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West. “No wonder everything I ever read by Dickens features kids being cold and hungry. I’m cold and hungry, too.”

“You’re always cold and always hungry because you come from a desert wasteland death world and can’t function in normal places.” Zack gives the cab driver the address of their hotel, and watches with not a little interest as the car takes off, wrong side of the road and all. He sends a few texts to inform the relevant parties about their safe arrival, and then, probably to Noah’s relief, asks the cabbie about places to eat close to their lodgings.

They end up having fish and chips at a pub-- perhaps incredibly stereotypical, but enjoyable all the same, and Noah spends most of the time gregariously chatting up everyone he comes across in the pub-- the somewhat world-weary barmaid, the others probably trying to have a meal and a drink in peace, a pair of college-age boys avidly watching a rugby game on the television screen. By the end of their meal, Noah-- and by extension, Zack, had been invited to quite a few clubs and outings for the week that they’re spending there. Zack keeps mostly to himself, though he does discreetly ask the barmaid about florist shops close to the South Kensington area.

“Oh, six dozen pink roses? That will be very dear. I wish you and your bird a long and happy marriage. She’s a lucky one, she is.”

“I’m not proposing to her, and she’s not… it’s complicated. She’s graduating tomorrow. I promised her two years ago that I’d be there, so here I am. We spent three days together, so-- seventy-two hours. And it’s a long story that involves me being an idiot and getting lost in Italy and… do you think the florist will be able to pull this off at this short notice? I’m not trying to be that asshole customer but we literally just got in town a few hours ago so it can’t be helped.”

“Oh, laddie, it’s London. We’ve been dealing with arseholes for hundreds of years and certainly we’re used to them by now, if that’s what you’re worried about. And I’m sure no one in the florist business got in without some sense of romance, or they’d be running a Tesco instead, wouldn’t they?”

She gives him directions and phone numbers, and wishes him the best of luck.

**

The graduation ceremony takes place at the Royal Albert Hall, and it’s much as one might expect of a commencement-- a few speeches, and then the procession of students in their Imperial blue graduation gowns lines up by department to get their degrees and shake hands with the university’s president.

Zack had pulled a few strings, called in as many favours as he could, and had gotten passes to attend the ceremony compliments of one of the Chemistry Department professors, who’d been classmates with Raven’s husband, Jude. They’d arrived early, and certainly had gotten more than their share of curious glances, likely due to the fact that he was carrying a bouquet of roses large and elaborate enough to need its own seat.

He spots Amy almost right away when her department goes up-- she’s notably, almost adorably shorter than both the students in front and behind her in the line, and even in the anonymous sea of blue gowns, he can pick out the way she walks, the tilt of her head and the graceful line of her neck. She hasn’t changed much since he’d seen her last-- perhaps her hair is a little longer, and her skin paler in the London fog as opposed to the Italian sun. The noise that he and Noah make when she receives her degree is certainly disproportionately loud, and gains them even more curious looks.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a bit of a blur, and Zack makes his way towards where Amy and the rest of her class walked after the recessional, and he finds her in conversation with a tall, buxom Amazon with luxuriant auburn curls. Amy has her back turned towards him, but her friend spots Zack and Noah almost immediately; undoubtedly due to the preposterously large bouquet in Zack’s hands.

“Who’s for the Miss Universe pageant here, then?” Her voice is musically Irish, and Zack remembers-- this must be Amy’s roommate, Mary Kathleen O’Keefe. He doesn’t have the time to say anything, though, because at that moment, Amy follows her friend’s gaze and slowly turns around, and it’s suddenly as though all the air in the room is gone, as well as all of the excess space and people and movement. Zack watches the gamut of emotions that cross her delicate, beloved features-- bewilderment, then surprise, then undeniable joy underneath the flush of embarrassment. Her lips quiver, and her eyes fill, and he’s crossed the room to stand in front of her before he quite realizes that he’s moved. And then, almost as though he has every right to do so, he’s pulled her close, the flowers pressed against her back, his cheek pressed against her temple, her hands clenched around handfuls of his shirt. She smells like cool rain and warm tea and every wish he’d made in the last two years, coming true all at once. He pulls back just enough to look into her face, watch her lips curve up into that long-lost smile, before his own home in on them, sweet and slow and almost rapturous. They’re almost certainly making a spectacle of themselves, but he can’t bring himself to care. Every single long and lonely night in the last two years has been leading to this very moment.

He finally manages to pull away from kissing her, and hands her the bouquet, which doesn’t seem much worse for the wear even though he’d barely kept a grip on the stems while holding onto something far more precious. “Your roses, as promised.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually come. I mean, I had thought--- you’re really here!”

There is something endearing and somehow satisfying about rendering her speechless, and he can’t control his grin. “I did promise I’d be here, didn’t I? You look beautiful. I suppose I should say congratulations on graduating and all that, but I’m just a spazz who’s really happy to see you again so I’m all out of order right now.” She has her face buried in the velvety pink petals and doesn’t seem to mind that he has one hand perhaps-proprietarily resting on the small of her back. “What have you been up to, anyway? I’ve been taking online classes for the last year for graphic design, and next year, I’ll be transferring to UCLA. Begged Morgan to put me up at her place, and Raven’s husband helped me get in the door. I’ve been working my ass off to save up the money, since Cali is definitely not cheap, but I’ve got a good feeling about all of this.”

Amy opens her mouth to answer, but Mary Kathleen, who’d certainly been watching the proceedings with beady-eyed fascination, butts in. “Oy. I know who you are! I follow you on Instagram, and sure but you’re even prettier in real life! Amy, you sly wench, you have been up to all manner of business that you’ve not shared with me, haven’t you then?” She gives Zack a careful once-over, then grins. “And what sort of friend might you be to our Amy that you’d come all the way across the pond to bring her a hundred roses?”

“I don’t know if ‘friend’ is the word. He’s what we like to call a ‘smitten kitten’.” Noah, clearly more than ready to join the conversation at Zack’s expense, pipes up and approaches the group, megawatt smile in place as he holds out a hand to Mary Kathleen. “Nice to meet you, I’m Noah Parker, and you two both clearly already know Zack.”

“Actually, I think I know you, too. _You_ are Laird Carmichael from ‘His Thundering Highland Heart’ by Katie Satine!” Mary Kathleen gives Noah an even more lengthy once-over, and smirks up at him. Noah’s a good few inches over six feet, but she’s tall enough that she doesn’t have to crane her neck. “I quite enjoyed that one, I did. ‘Twas nice of you to come along with your friend for the moral support.”

“Oh, it’s totally worth my time, especially now, sweetie.”

Zack is dimly aware that her friend and his roommate are conducting some sort of flirtation in the background, and that perhaps Amy’s parents would be present, and undoubtedly there are all sorts of things that she should be doing right now rather than this, but he can’t bring himself to care, or even think about anything other than that final-puzzle-piece-snapping-into-place feeling of being here with her at this very minute. “It’s seventy-two roses, for the record. For the best three days of my life so far. Seventy-two hours of you, and if that makes me a sentimental idiot, oh well.”

Her cheek is soft and just the slightest bit damp against his. “You are a sentimental idiot.”

Someday, he thinks, he’ll give her another extravagantly ridiculous bouquet of pink roses in the multiple dozens, and they’d be for years, rather than hours. But he keeps that thought to himself, and smiles, and hugs her close. “Yeah, I am totally your sentimental idiot. What are you gonna do about it?”


End file.
